


in order that it may come

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Revolutionary Rhetoric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Enjolras stood still. Combeferre did not speak: he pressed his forehead into Enjolras’s shoulder, he leaned his weight on Enjolras’s chest, but though he shook, he was silent.</p>
</blockquote>In the aftermath of Jean Prouvaire's death, Enjolras takes Combeferre aside.<p>For Barricade Day, 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in order that it may come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oilan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/gifts), [Anacrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anacrea/gifts).



> From two Tumblr Enjolras/Combeferrre prompts, one which was meant for Barricade Day fic and one which wasn't:
> 
> from Anacrea, for Barricade Day: private conversations  
> from Oilan, less for Barricade Day: 20 or 22
> 
> (20 being "A kiss on the neck" and 22 being "More than one kiss".)

> _"Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre's arm._
> 
> _At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms._
> 
> _They heard a manly voice shout:—_
> 
> _"Long live France! Long live the future!"_
> 
> _They recognized the voice of Prouvaire._
> 
> _A flash passed, a report rang out._
> 
> _Silence fell again._
> 
> _"They have killed him," exclaimed Combeferre._

The End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire

Volume IV: The Idyll In Rue Plumet and The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis

_Les Misérables_  (Victor Hugo, translated by Isabel Hapgood)

* * *

 “They have killed him,” repeated Combeferre, more softly, and with further an edge of panic. Enjolras did not move his hand from upon Combeferre’s arm; he pressed his fingers into the crook of his elbow and thumbed beneath his rolled up shirtsleeve. Vigilant as he was in these hours, Enjolras felt acutely the pulse in Combeferre’s veins by his palm.

The inspector said nothing in reply; thus, Enjolras looked to the rest of the taproom. In the preceding moments, some among the wounded had stirred. A medical student Enjolras had not met until their march along the Rue Saint-Denis that morning tended to them with controlled skill, though even he had turned at the sound of the volley.

“They have—“ Combeferre began again, surpassing even his original volume, only to choke on his next word.

Enjolras firmed his grip and tugged. _Not here_ , he knew, but where - that was uncertain. The widow Hucheloup and the serving women of the Corinthe hid in the cellar; the upper room, too, was occupied.

In the corner of the room was the wooden staircase, spiraling up through the ceiling. Enjolras turned his head and squinted – the steps concealed what looked to be a space wide enough for them to stand, if he himself hunched.

Such a recess would need to do.

He said nothing. To lead Combeferre, he did not always need to; it was the way of things for them both.

Not until they had managed to squeeze into that space, Enjolras on the outside and Combeferre hidden within, did he release his grip on Combeferre’s elbow – and he did so only that he could embrace him, instead.

His hair smelt of gunpowder; his waistcoat, messed with dried blood, and dust, and dirt, felt gritty against Enjolras’s hands.

Enjolras stood still. Combeferre did not speak: he pressed his forehead into Enjolras’s shoulder, he leaned his weight on Enjolras’s chest, but though he shook, he was silent. He gripped Enjolras’s shirtsleeve, his other arm wrapped tightly at his waist; Enjolras held him upright and near.

They did not often embrace, but they did not often need to. Upon the barricade time passed both quickly and slowly, fleeting and serene at once – perhaps they stood that way for minutes, perhaps only seconds.

For Enjolras, to feel Combeferre pressed so against him, to know his grief thus intimately and to comfort him, did not necessitate the removal of his pocket watch.

But no matter the length of their embrace, they did part.

Combeferre, who was short enough to fit beneath an inner stair at his full height, pulled away. Enjolras dropped his arms, but did not protest when Combeferre caught his wrist and held it. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“Remember his courage, Combeferre,” murmured Enjolras, looking into Combeferre’s eyes – now dry, at the expense of his shirtsleeve. Combeferre held this gaze.

Here and now, it was only them. This time – this shared moment in the cramped space of the spiral stairwell – was theirs alone.

“Bear in mind that melancholy and that vivacity, those attitudes each exhibited for us all at times of strife and tranquility, from which we benefited as his companion in friendship.”

Enjolras lifted his other hand to press softly against Combeferre’s cheek. Combeferre’s eyes closed, his formerly harried breaths slowed to a rate more relaxed.

“Above all,” Enjolras continued, stroking his thumb along Combeferre’s cheek and the corner of his mouth, wiping his tears with a physical tenderness he had not utilized at all that day; “above all, Combeferre, you must keep with you the goodness of Jean Prouvaire’s conscience. He fought alongside us valiantly, devotedly, for he loved the people and he pictured vividly that future we so aspire to. We may grieve him, we must recall him thus, but we mustn’t lament.”

At first Combeferre said nothing, giving instead a resolute nod. His eyelids fluttered, and Enjolras remained still, keeping his palm at Combeferre’s cheek.

When he did speak, his words were exhaled rather than spoken; Enjolras heard only the end of the phrase: “…must be innocent.”

Enjolras dropped his hand to Combeferre’s neck, remained silent.

“For years I spoke a fallacy,” Combeferre said, more audibly. “It is the doing of Jean Prouvaire that I ceased.”

He opened his eyes. No longer was his expression mournful, nor tragic; though they stood in near darkness, his eyes shone clearly with hope and resolve rather than grief.

“And it is your own doing that I now comprehend the weaving of progress and revolution,” he added.

“So it is yours, Combeferre, that I wish for illumination in fraternity with liberation.”

Enjolras did not resist as Combeferre lifted his hand and kissed his palm, then his fingers, then his knuckles and the top of his hand, each after the other, ardent.

Though the sensation was unfamiliar, the gesture was welcome. Enjolras stroked his thumb at Combeferre’s jaw before letting go; at the same time, Combeferre dropped his hand – then set his own on Enjolras’s shoulders.

“Citizen Combeferre,” Enjolras said, and he looked away momentarily that he might picture his own words: “with our deaths will come triumph in the name of the revolution, and in the name of the future. Already tonight I have condemned myself, so also have I pledged this future to love. It is for love and progress that we sacrifice thus.”

At this, Combeferre swiftly moved forward; Enjolras felt his breath on his chin and mouth, and then the soft press of his lips at his cheek, and he shuddered, closing his eyes. As he tilted his head to the side in invitation, he felt Combeferre’s fingers – calloused and rough from the lifting of stones and wood in the building of the barricade – touch below his chin, pulling aside his collar, and then his breath against the skin of his neck and shoulder. Combeferre kissed the indent below his ear, then the angle of his jaw. Enjolras breathed in, then out.

He felt Combeferre's closed lips touch above his collar, pressing kisses along his throat and then his exposed collarbone with utmost tenderness - and once more he trembled.

And then, nearly as quickly as the affection had begun, it was over: Enjolras felt Combeferre's fingers once again, delicately readjusting his collar, and then he did not feel Combeferre at all – but he heard his breathing, and he sensed his nearness. He opened his eyes to see Combeferre’s own gazing back at him, a gaze of love, now, too, free of desire or want but full with devotion.

“I thank you, Citizen Enjolras,” said Combeferre, “and I shall share your fate.”

A repetition.

Enjolras nodded.

“So be it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Le Cabuc chapter in Idyll/Epic - after the execution, and after Combeferre says that they at the barricade will share Enjolras's fate, Enjolras finishes his words with,
> 
> "The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life; it will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die."
> 
> Here's to Barricade Day.


End file.
